


Needlework

by SilverBird13



Series: Rule 63-Verse Series [10]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/F, Gender Dynamics in Lesbian Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Rule 63, Stitches, wounded on the job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-04 00:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4119573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverBird13/pseuds/SilverBird13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Valjean sighs, pacing from the window to the door, her dressing robe’s hushed swishing and the ticking of the clock echoing in the silence that has pervaded the last few hours.  Javert is competent, she tells herself, walking back to the window. Javert is quick and skillful and-"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needlework

Valjean looks up at the mantle clock for the fifth time this hour. It is nearly midnight, but her nervous heart won’t allow her to retire until Javert has returned home. She sighs, pacing from the window to the door, her dressing robe’s hushed swishing and the ticking of the clock echoing in the silence that has pervaded the last few hours. _Javert is competent,_ she tells herself, walking back to the window. _Javert is quick and skillful and-_

“Val..” a garbled voice croaks, and Valjean nearly falls backwards into her chair as a dull thud against the door follows. Without thinking, Valjean throws it open as tears fill her eyes, knowing exactly who she will find lying in a bloody heap on the step.

“Javert, I have you,” Valjean says with a steady voice as she heaves the woman into her arms. She grits her teeth against a scream as Javert coughs up blood onto her shoulder. “Please, you’ve made it home,” she murmurs, smoothing the jumbled limbs so that Javert is seated in the armchair. Valjean presses her face into Javert’s neck, suppressing a sob as Javert wheezes and a trail of blood and spittle drips onto her torn uniform. She tears a strip of fabric from the bottom of her nightgown, binding it against the gash on Javert’s upper arm and wincing as she goes to fetch her sewing kit. When she returns, Javert has not moved, though the makeshift bandage is soaked through with blood.

“There we are,” Valjean says, situating herself on the ottoman and threading her thinnest needle with silk thread, eying Javert’s wound with trepidation.

“Val…” Javert tries again, her eyes still closed. Valjean shudders, giving Javert’s hand a squeeze before stabbing the needle into Javert’s skin, beginning the first stitch. Javert lets out a howl of protest, and Valjean smiles despite herself. 

“At least you’re awake now,” she says softly as she pulls the first stitch through. Javert remains silent and still, though her tense grip on Valjean’s knee reassures the other woman that the damage done is not fatal. Valjean sews seven neat stitches into the wound, ripping back the shoulder of Javert’s uniform as she works to check for other injuries. Save for several bruises against Javert’s collarbone and chest, Valjean cannot find any, and she sends up a silent prayer of thanks.

“Bastard,” Javert growls as Valjean undoes the rest of Javert’s uniform, wincing at the mosaic of fresh bruises and scrapes that adorn her lover’s skin. “Damned fop.”

Valjean raises her eyebrows at the obscenity as she prods her way to Javert’s mouth, pouring some water from the tea kettle into her mouth and holding Javert’s chin to a towel as she feebly rinses her mouth. Save for a lost molar and a bruised cheekbone, Javert remains whole, and Valjean quickly wipes Javert’s face clean of spit and dirt. She’ll need a bath in the morning, but for now, Valjean believes a nightgown and a bed will suffice. She scoops Javert up once again and carries her to their room, fitting a nightgown over Javert’s head and her uninjured arm before lying them both down in an awkward curve. Javert has never been able to sleep well like this, though she cannot risk her choking upon any fresh blood should she rest her on her back instead. Javert’s breathing evens out quickly despite this, and Valjean cannot bear to extract herself from the other woman to change or even to kneel, praying into Javert’s neck instead of into her rosary.

Valjean drifts in and out of old dreams of blood and agony and is unsure how late or early it is when she opens her eyes again. Javert has rolled over and is curled towards Valjean, her body cramped into a ball. Valjean can smell the blood and filth Javert had coughed onto her dressing gown and feels the jagged edge of her nightgown trapping her bare foot. She smooths a sweat-slicked strand of hair from Javert’s face and smiles at her stoic expression even in sleep. She tries not to let her mind wander to what may have happened had she been in bed when Javert arrived home, choosing instead to brush a kiss against her lover’s nose, careful to avoid the swelling, bruised lips below. She is grateful it is not broken, as she knows how to stitch a wound and care for bruises, but not how to coax Javert into accepting a doctor’s hand upon her. Javert grunts softly, sliding her hand beneath the pillow, and Valjean smiles, laying hers atop it. 

*************

Javert heals quickly, and though her speech is often thick from her swollen gums, she is out of bed two days after her attack and even allows Valjean to make her a linen sling for her bruised arm without protest. 

“A fine job,” she says at breakfast one morning, touching the stitches delicately over the cloth. “The officer’s wives couldn’t do better.”

Valjean chuckles as she spears a piece of pear. “Now you know why they married.”

Javert smiles wryly. “I suppose I shall be the wife at home from now on, worrying about you on your charity missions.”

Valjean frowns, Javert’s insinuation slowly sinking in. “You’re retiring?” She quickly amends her brusque words. “Of course, I’d be glad to have you with me every day, but are you certain? Protecting, serving the law. It's been your lifeblood.”

Javert snorts. “Let some young upstart have their chance at cleaning Paris of decay. Besides,” she says with a calm, clear gaze, “I’ve enough to protect and serve here.”

Valjean blushes despite herself, laying a hand on Javert’s knee under the table. They sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, Javert gingerly sipping her tea as Valjean nibbles on a crust of bread. 

“Does this mean I’ll have to learn needlework now?”

Valjean’s smile is tired but somehow still retains its brilliance. “I wouldn’t have you lose more blood. Perhaps we should start with flower arranging.”


End file.
